The third time I floated the Rio Grande River through Boquillas Canyon, things went smoother than they had on the first two. That fact was especially significant since it was my first time leading a group into the backcountry. On that third trip, our group of twelve included ten teenage boys, and we paddled two per aluminum canoe.
On the third trip, we made a 33-mile, three-day excursion down the river on the east side of Big Bend National Park, camping for two nights along the way. The trip was a big success. Many in the group experienced the wild and scenic backcountry for the first time.
There were only a few minor technical issues with canoeing, and everyone learned that not all drinking water comes from faucets. Other than dealing with a certain amount of teenage chaos, I mostly just went with the flow, gazed out at the mighty Sierra del Carmen mountains rising to the southeast, and pondered the majesty and complexities of the surrounding massive cliff walls.
Things hadn’t been that way on my first two trips. It wasn’t that the river, spectacular cliffs, and the looming bluish massif of the Sierra del Carmen weren’t there; it’s just that there’d been other considerations.
I went there the first time with Coulter, a guy I’d gone to junior high and high school with, just after our first year in college. We put in our “cost less than $100” inflatable rubber raft at Rio Grande Village, a campground and store in the National Park located just upstream from the canyon. Leading up to the trip, we wasted little time reading guidebooks. And we weren’t concerned with the fact that modern civilization pretty much ended once we entered the canyon. Regardless of the facts, we were confident that we’d planned our great rafting adventure meticulously. While that wasn’t the case, we were prepared for uncertainty, and that was our saving grace.
There were a couple of things we did know about our river trip as we pushed the raft off from the riverbank into the lazy current. First, we knew for a fact we were entering one of the three big canyons (Santa Elena, Mariscal, and Boquillas) along the Big Bend section of the Rio Grande. And we were also sure there were no major rapids of concern. The latter was significant since neither of us had any real whitewater paddling experience.
Once out in the water, the current quickly grabbed and swept us past the point of no return. It was a mysterious and magical realm we entered, as giant rocks and cliffs suddenly rose both to our right and left. I’d never seen anything like it. At that point, we realized there was no more Mexico or USA, and there were also no National Park rangers, no parents, and no one to ask. Suddenly, there was only the water, over 100 miles of wild river, and mostly uninhabited mountains and desert.
We started in the afternoon and planned to go only a couple of hours into the canyon before finding a place to pitch our tent for the first night. We somehow knew enough to paddle “more or less” together and placed our fully loaded frame backpacks in the middle of the boat. We were amazed by how much weight the raft held. And from the get-go, we were pleased by how well it served its purpose- and for less than $100!
Little paddling had to be one to move as fast as we dared. Instead, we focused on keeping the front of the raft pointed downstream and let the river do the rest. But at about 5:00 pm, the south breeze, which had mainly been at our backs, began to shift. It started coming at us from the east (or straight ahead) and changed from a gentle breeze into a stiff one. Within minutes, the wind shift became profound, and we were ultimately hit head-on by a brutal, sand-filled gale that almost completely halted our forward progress.
Both of us dug our paddles deeply into the water and pulled for all we were worth in a drastic attempt to keep moving forward. Finally, after paddling for five minutes, we gauged our progress relative to an old tree trunk over on the shore and noted that while we hadn’t moved forward, at least we hadn’t been blown upstream. “If only we had a canoe,” I thought, “we might actually be going downstream.”
Amid our struggles with paddling, we glanced over and saw a suitable camping spot. Before stopping for the night, we’d planned to go further and figured we’d find a pleasant, grass-covered flat spot for pitching our dome tent. But at that moment, we opted for whatever we could get and noted that our option was neither flat nor grassy.
Thankfully, we were close to the shore. After a few minutes of complex paddling, we got close enough to the riverbank for Coulter to jump out onto a sandbar and drag us ashore. He held onto the bow line and pulled the whole boat rig, with me attached, onto the bank. Our first instinct was to use the raft as both a windbreak and a shelter. But we soon realized it caught too much wind for that, and we focused on anchoring it to the ground to keep it from blowing away. I will say that losing your boat where we were would suck, though we didn’t spend much time thinking about it.
After some struggle, we finally got the raft tied down to the same big log we’d used to assess our progress. Once done, we began looking for a good place to set up the tent. We recognized we were becoming overwhelmed by the wind and needed to get out of it quickly, so we became ever less picky regarding where to do it. Finally, we located a “levelish” spot, pulled out our dome tent, and set about fighting the wind to put it up.
What should’ve taken only a few minutes took considerably more. But eventually, we did get it set up, and almost miraculously, with the door facing away from the wind. We climbed in and zipped ourselves inside as soon as it was ready. Even though we could hear the wind pounding outside, it was calm inside, with no blowing sand. So, finally, all was good.
Eventually, the gale subsided enough for us to cook supper outside. But we didn’t do that; we stayed in the tent and opted for the no-cook meal we’d brought along for emergencies instead. As it turns out, a strong wind was not something we’d considered in our pre-trip planning. And so, while eating a mix of crackers, cheese, and Oreos, we speculated about what we’d do if something like that ever happened again.
After the wind incident, the rest of the trip went flawlessly. A couple of days later, we pulled the raft up onto the bank, just under the bridge at La Linda, and shuttled back into the park to Rio Grande Village and my pickup. We camped there in the campground for a few days and ended our trip with a day float through the middle of the three Big Bend canyons, Mariscal. Interestingly, on that trip, we performed a sort of river rescue.
While camping in the campground, we met a group of four students from Texas A&M (Aggies) who headed off to float through Mariscal Canyon a few minutes ahead of us. Coulter and I were both a bit concerned when we arrived at the put-in and saw them loading themselves onto a sailboat’s bottom. As the four paddled out into the current, I couldn’t help but think they looked more like they belonged in someone’s backyard pool, rather than on the Rio Grande. They were a little ahead of us when they came to the most technically challenging feature on that section of the river, which is known as “the Tight Squeeze.” We caught up to them just as they took an unfortunate path over the notorious big rock that creates the feature. Their route took them directly over it, causing them to launch from their plank into the water. Within only moments, we managed to pull them all out of the river and haul them to the relative safety of the shore. Afterward, as Coulter and I drifted back into the current, we heard them talking about what they “were gonna’ do next time.” That was the last venture for our “under $100 raft.” But overall, we were pleased by how well it performed during its short but eventful life.
So, that brings me to the next trip, which was my second. Several years after the “wind” trip and a few months before my first trip as a group leader, I did it with an old friend, whom I’ll call Busby. We planned to do it as a dress rehearsal for the trip we’d be leading the teenagers on later that year. Once again, it would’ve made sense to have our trip plans completely worked out before doing the exploratory excursion. But since it was supposed to be only a planning trip, we figured we could deal with those details “in process.” We were at least doing it in the late spring when the water and weather were relatively warm. And this time, we had a bombproof aluminum canoe that leaked only a little, and I was already familiar with our starting point. Other details, such as the shuttle back to our vehicle from the take-out point, were a bit ambiguous.
Initially, things went like clockwork. As planned, we made the six-hour drive to the park and our put-in location at Rio Grande Village. We arrived in the late afternoon and had plenty of time to set up our tent in the campground and have supper before dark. The following morning, we were fully energized and eager to get going when we carried the canoe over to the water’s edge. With the boat in a shallow, calm backwater, we loaded our packs into the middle and climbed in. We just sat on the bow and stern seats, given the relatively benign water, and then eased out into the current.
The first few miles from Rio Grande Village, past Boquillas Crossing, and into the canyon are mellow. The terrain is relatively flat, with only the distant mountains creating relief. The warm sun, predictable flow, and the fact I’d done it before began conspiring early on to relax me. As we entered the canyon, the cliff walls rose from the surrounding terrain sporadically at first. But they soon virtually engulfed the river. I put my paddle down and lay back on the stern deck to take it all in. Studying the seemingly perfectly orchestrated chaos of the rock overwhelmed my senses. Unwanted Urunda, or River Cane, was growing in scattered and unlikely spots in the rocks where cracks and creases had been filled with bits of sand and dirt and seemed to be taking root everywhere. Two Crows soared near the top of the massive rock wall, which in places rose directly out of the water and appeared to extend for a considerable distance up into the sky. Finally, with the warm sun conspiring with the calm water, I decided to close my eyes for just a moment and take a quick nap. As it turned out, that was a poor decision.
When I was awake and steering the boat from the stern, everything went well. But things changed once I drifted off into a relaxed slumber. Bad timing, I suppose. Something, perhaps a new sound, sudden shift, or dramatic change in speed, woke me abruptly and sent me springing into action, although a bit behind the curve. Busby was in the bow and doing all he could to keep us pointed downstream as we entered a section of somewhat swifter water. He was struggling to keep us from turning broadside into the current, which, as I was aware, often leads a canoe to swamp or turn over.
I grabbed for my paddle, but a couple of miscues in my attempts to do so delayed my action. Within a few seconds, I managed to get ahold of it, slid back down onto the seat, and finally got the paddle blade into the water. While that was happening, the canoe initiated an abrupt left turn, perpendicular to the current. The upriver side of the canoe seemed to reach down and suck in water, destabilizing everything and flipping the boat, dumping us into the water.
While our situation was not good, I could see that the rapid that created the problem was actually more of a riffle and would soon disappear. In reality, we were simply in the middle of a big, calm, and slow-moving pool of water. I also observed a big sandbar to our north where we could get out and reorganize ourselves. Finally, I saw that our backpacks were still closed up and floating nearby. Things could’ve been worse, but they weren’t, I rationalized.
Since we weren’t on a strict schedule, we grabbed the canoe and our packs, dragged them up onto the beach, and began leisurely reorganizing and drying things out. We repacked our gear, and all was back to normal within an hour. While Busby stabilized and secured it, I loaded the packs into the canoe. We learned some important lessons during the swamping event. And so, on the second loading/packing go-round, we tied things down better, realizing the problems that could develop if either pack floated away. Once ready, we carefully climbed in and took our positions, backpaddled out into the current, and headed on downstream, this time more attentively.
We spent three days floating through the canyon, from Rio Grande Village to the take-out at La Linda. Other than the swamping incident, it was a relaxing and spectacular float. We camped twice along the way, and it seemed like an ideal trip for the kind of group we’d have with us later in the year.
On the last day, as we floated out of the canyon and entered the home stretch, I felt particularly pleased with how well the trip had worked out. But then, I began to think about the logistics involved with the end of the journey. and started getting light-headed as I realized there was one particularly essential end-of-trip task I’d forgotten to figure out. We were about to take our canoe out of the river near an incredibly remote bridge and needed to get it and ourselves back home. The process, commonly referred to as the shuttle, happens on virtually every river trip, and I’d completely forgotten about it. If we didn’t come up with a solution, I realized, we were about to be stranded in La Linda while our vehicle awaited our return, 100 miles away in Rio Grande Village.
About an hour before reaching La Linda, we happened upon a group of two canoes and four people who mentioned they were headed to La Linda, just like us. I inquired about their shuttle plans, and they responded that they’d left a Suburban parked near the crossing and would be taking it back to Rio Grande Village, where they’d left their other vehicle. I did the math and realized there was room for me in the Suburban, and I could ride back with them to complete our shuttle. I was concerned about leaving the canoe and backpacks at the bridge while doing the shuttle, but figured Busby could stay and guard them while I made the round trip.
And so, after some chit-chat, I asked if they’d give me a ride back to Rio Grande Village, and they agreed. Problem solved, at least for me. So, we headed past the savior group after making plans to meet up on the U.S. side under the La Linda bridge. Within a few minutes, their two canoes disappeared behind us. Busby and I eventually floated down to the bridge, eased over to the shore, and landed.
It’s complicated just why there’s a bridge at that spot. It was built in the early ’60s to provide access between the US and a fluorspar mine across the border. And it did just that. By the time we were there, an actual town of sorts had developed around the mine. There was never much of anything on the US side other than miles of open desert. But a hearty bunch of miners and laborers called the Mexican side home, which created an aura of civilization in the middle of the boondocks.
The mine was fully operational as we dragged our canoe and gear onto the shore. We knew we didn’t want to leave any of it out in the open for the whole world to see, but there was no structure or vegetation of any size to hide it behind. So, we just did the best we could, and carried it all up the bank a hundred feet, and stuck it behind a clump of not-so-big bushes. Just as we were finishing up, the two boats from our shuttle friends arrived. And so, we headed straight back down to the river’s edge and helped them deal with their boats and gear.
The plan was for Busby to wait and guard our gear while I was gone. There was no consideration on my part regarding what that would entail. Then, when I returned with my Scout, we’d haul our stuff the rest of the way up to the road and load it. It was mid-afternoon by the time the Suburban was finally packed, and the five of us were ready to leave. I told Busby I’d be back in four hours, which meant I’d be back before sunset if all went well. And then, we left.
Things went well with the shuttle, though it was after dark when I returned to
La Linda. The round trip took longer than anticipated. As I drove up to the bridge, there was no apparent sign of Busby. But once I stopped, got out, and yelled for him, he emerged from the thicket he was hiding in. We hauled the boat and packs up to the road, loaded up, and by early evening were driving toward home.
I planned to stop in Marathon to fill up on gas for our trip home, and I checked the fuel gauge before leaving La Linda and was comforted to see we had more than enough gas to get us the 75 miles to that little town. And so, assuming things went as planned, all was good.
And that brings up an interesting point. Yes, we did have enough gasoline to get back to a gas station to fill the tank that evening, and thankfully, there was one still open when we got there. So, after fueling up, continuing the drive, and while Busby slept, I had time to ponder it all. My new memories of spectacular vistas and wild water were combined with thoughts about what could’ve gone wrong on our trip. Things like our packs floating away when we tumped, not encountering the shuttle people when we did, or the possibility of arriving in Marathon with all the gas stations closed. There were plenty of negative and scary thoughts. But they were all overwhelmed by visions of the remarkable things we saw and experienced.
Swamping the canoe in the river was a mess, but the water was refreshing. La Linda is a lonely place, but the folks I rode with back into the park were full of good stories. A battle of sorts erupted in my mind. I thought about the unanticipated wind with Coulter, the Aggies getting launched off their sailboat bottom, and Busby hiding in the bushes at La Linda. They were compelling events that were quickly and firmly etched in my mind. But I realized they might not have even happened had there been significant planning or had things happened as anticipated.
Ultimately, I concluded that there are undoubtedly specific details in every adventure that are best solidified before the event begins, especially if there is a time constraint. Most of those are related to logistics and safety, such as airline reservations and first aid kits. But at the same time, I decided to avoid the temptation to over-plan, which would remove the unexpected wonder and excitement of it all. Undoubtedly, on the three trips, I learned some of the nuances of backcountry canoeing and camping, in general, and at Big Bend in particular. I also gained respect for wild country and continued learning how to be the one calling the shots. But my most profound takeaway was that there’s a balance to strike between over-planning and “winging it” to create the most compelling memories.
